Someone to Watch Over Me

CHAPTER 3

Grant awoke as the weak morning sunlight began to filter through the windowpanes. Perplexed, he stared at the ice-blue ceiling of the guest room, expecting to see the wine-colored canopy over his own bed. Suddenly he recalled the events of the previous evening. There had been no sound from Vivien's room. He wondered how she had fared the night. After all she had been through, she would likely sleep for most of the day.

Fitting his hands behind his head, Grant lay there for another minute, pondering the knowledge that Vivien was here, in his house, only a few rooms away from him. It had been a long time since a woman had slept beneath his roof. Vivien Duvall, at his mercy...The thought entertained him prodigiously. The fact that she didn't remember what had happened between them only heightened his enjoyment of the situation.

Yawning, Grant sat up and scratched his fingers through the pelt of dark hair on his chest. He rang for his valet, padded to a nearby chair, and dressed in the linens and pale gray trousers that had been laid out for him. His morning routine had been established by years of habit. He was always out of bed at sunrise, had finished his personal ablutions and dressed within twenty minutes, spent the next half hour devouring a huge breakfast and scanning theTimes , and left on foot for Bow Street. Sir Ross Cannon required all Runners who weren't on duty to report by no later than nine.

In fewer than five minutes, his valet, Kellow, appeared with a ewer of hot shaving water and all the necessary implements. At the same time, a housemaid quickly laid the fire and tidied the grate.

Grant poured steaming water into a washbowl and sluiced handfuls of it onto his face, trying to soften what had to be the most obstinate beard in London. When his shaving was concluded, Grant put on a white shirt, a patterned gray waistcoat, and a black silk cravat. The official uniform of the Bow Street Runners included a red waistcoat, blue coat and navy trousers, and tall black boots polished to an immaculate shine. Grant detested the garb. On an average-sized man the brightly colored clothes--which had inspired the public to nickname the Runners "Robin Redbreasts"--were somewhat foppish. On a man of his height, the effect was startling.

Grant's personal taste favored dark, well-tailored clothes in shades of gray, beige, and black, with no personal adornment save his pocket watch. He kept his hair conveniently short and was sometimes compelled to shave twice a day when a formal occasion called for him to remove another layer of his encroaching beard. He bathed every evening, as he was unable to sleep well otherwise. The physical exertion of his job, not to mention the foul characters he often associated with, often made him feel unclean within and without.

Although many valets were called upon to assist their masters with their clothes, Grant preferred to dress himself. He found the notion of standing still while some other fellow dressed him as more than a little ridiculous. He was an able-bodied man, not some tot who needed help with his skeleton suit. When he'd expressed this view to one of his socially elevated friends, the friend had told him with amusement that this was one of the essential differences between the lower classes and the aristocracy.

"You mean only the lower classes know how to fasten their buttons?" Grant had asked wryly.

"No," the friend had replied with a laugh, "it's just that they have no choice in the matter. The aristocracy, on the other hand, can get someone else to do it for them."

After tying his black silk cravat in a simple knot, Grant jerked the tips of his collar to neat standing points. He dragged a comb through his ruffled dark hair and gave a cursory glance in the looking glass. Just as he reached for his charcoal-gray coat, he heard a muffled sound from a few rooms away.

"Vivien," he murmured, dropping the coat at once. He reached the master bedroom in a few strides, entering without bothering to knock. The housemaid had already visited and had stoked a small fire in the grate.

Vivien was attempting to get out of bed by herself, the linen shirt twisted around the middle of her thighs. Her long hair fell in wild straggles down her back. She was standing on one foot, maintaining a precarious balance. Her sprained ankle was bound and swollen, and the pain it caused was obvious as she took one limping step away from the bed.

"What do you need?" Grant asked, and she started at the sound of his voice. She didn't look much better than she had the previous night, her face ghastly pale, her eyes still swollen, her throat bruised. "Do you want the privy?"

The blunt question clearly caused Vivien no end of mortification. A scarlet flush cascaded over her skin. The sight of a redhead blushing was not something to miss, Grant thought with a sudden flicker of amusement.

"Yes, thank you," she murmured, her voice hoarse and strained. She took another cautious hobbling step. "If you could just tell me where--"

"I'll help you." "Oh, no, really--" She gasped as he scooped her into his arms, her body small and light against his chest. Grant carried her the short distance to the privy, two doors down the hall, while Vivien tried in agonized modesty to pull the thin linen shirt farther over her thighs. The gesture struck him as odd for a courtesan. Vivien was known for her lack of sexual inhibition, not to mention her elegantly provocative style of dressing. Modesty had not been in her repertoire. Why did she seem so distressed now?

"You'll be stronger soon," he said. "In the meantime, stay in bed and keep off that ankle. If you want anything at all, ring for one of the maids."

"Yes. Thank you." Her small hands crept around his neck. "I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr...." She hesitated, and he knew that she had forgotten his last name.

"Call me Grant," he replied, setting her gently on the floor. "It's no trouble."

Vivien emerged from the privy a few minutes later, clearly surprised to find him still there. She seemed no bigger than a child, dressed in his shirt with the sleeves rolled back several times and the tail reaching below her knees. Her gaze lifted to his, and she returned his friendly smile with an abashed one of her own.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you."

He extended a hand to her. "Let me help you back to bed."

She hesitated before hobbling forward. Carefully Grant reached around her slender body, hooking one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. Although he lifted her with extreme gentleness, mindful of her injuries, Vivien gasped as he brought her against his chest. Of all the women he had held in his arms, none had ever possessed such lush, exquisite delicacy. Her bones were slender, but her flesh was pliant, voluptuous, utterly desirable.

Returning to the bedroom, Grant eased Vivien onto the mattress, fumbling to arrange a stack of pillows behind her. She tugged the blankets upward, bringing them high over her chest. In spite of her bedraggled condition, or perhaps because of it, he was struck again with the disconcerting urge to cuddle and caress her. He, who was known for possessing a heart of granite, or some similarly impermeable substance. "Are you hungry?" he asked gruffly.

"Not really."

"When the housekeeper brings a tray, I want you to eat something."

For some reason his tone of command made her smile. "I'll try."

Grant stood frozen in place by her smile...lucent and warm, a flash of magic that illuminated her delicate face. It was so unlike the self-absorbed woman he had met at Wentworth's ball that he wondered briefly if she was the same person at all. Yet she was, unmistakably, Vivien.

"Grant," she said hesitantly. "Please, would you bring a looking glass?" She pressed her hands to her cheeks in a self-conscious gesture. "I don't know what I look like."

Somehow managing to tear his gaze away from her, Grant went to the gentleman's cabinet in the corner of the room. He rummaged through the narrow drawers and located a woodennecessaire covered in leather. The case was designed to hold scissors, files, and grooming items, the lid fitted with a rectangular looking glass inside. Returning to the bedside, Grant opened thenecessaire and gave it to her.

Vivien tried to hold the case near her face, but her hands still trembled violently from her experience of the previous evening. Grant reached over and steadied thenecessaire as she viewed her reflection. Her hands were very cold beneath his, the fingers stiff and bloodless. Her eyes widened, and she barely seemed to breathe.

"How strange," she said, "not to recognize one's own face."

"You have no cause for complaint," Grant said huskily. Even bruised and pale and ravaged, her face was incomparable.

"Do you think so?" She stared into the looking glass without a trace of the self-satisfaction she had displayed at the ball.That Vivien had had no doubt of her many attractions. This woman was far less confident.

"Everyone thinks so. You're known as one of the great beauties of London."

"I don't see why." Catching his skeptical expression, she added, "Truly, I'm not fishing for compliments, it just...seems a very ordinary face." She produced a comical, clownish expression, like a child experimenting with her reflection. A shaken laugh escaped her. "It doesn't seem to belong to me." Her eyes glittered like sapphires, and he realized with a flare of alarm that she was going to cry.

"Don't," he muttered. "I told you last night how I feel about crying."

"Yes...you can't stand a woman's tears." She wiped her wet eyes with her fingers. A wobbly smile touched her lips. "I didn't think a Bow Street Runner would be so sensitive."

"Sensitive," Grant repeated indignantly. "I'm as hard-shelled as they come." He gathered a handful of the linen sheet and swabbed hastily at her face.

"Are you?" She gave a last sniffle and peered at him over the edge of the sheet, and he saw a hint of laughter appearing behind the last glimmering tears. "You seem rather soft-shelled to me."

Grant opened his mouth to argue, but realized suddenly that she was teasing him. With great difficulty, he tamped down an unexpected surge of warmth in his chest. "I'm about as sensitive as a millstone," he informed her.

"I'll reserve opinion on that." She closed thenecessaire and shook her head ruefully. "I shouldn't have asked for a looking glass. I look rather the worse for wear."

Grant contemplated her dry, cracked lips with a frown. Reaching for a little glass jar of salve on the night table, he handed it to her. "Try some of this. Linley left a special mixture for bruises, dryness, scrapes, chafing..."

"I could use a barrel of it," she said, fumbling with the hinged porcelain lid.

Retrieving the jar, Grant opened it for her. Instead of handing it back, he held it in his palm and let his gaze wander over her. "The shaking is better this morning," he observed quietly. Vivien colored and nodded, seeming embarrassed by the involuntary tremors. "Yes, but I still can't seem to get warm." She rubbed her palms over the fair, chapped skin of her arms. "I was wondering...if it wouldn't be too great an imposition--"

"A hot bath?"

"Oh, yes." The throb of anticipation in her voice made him smile.

"That can be arranged. But you'll have to move carefully, and let the servants help you. Or me, if you'd rather."

Vivien stared at him, openmouthed at the suggestion. "I-I wouldn't care to put you to such trouble--" she stammered.

"No trouble at all," he said mildly. Only the glint in his green eyes betrayed the fact that he was teasing her.

Before she could suppress it, an image appeared in her mind, of herself soaking in a steaming tub while he bathed her naked body.

"What a blush," Grant observed with a sudden smile. "If that doesn't warm you up, nothing will." He drew his fingertip over the velvety anisescented salve and brought it to her mouth. "Hold still."

Vivien obeyed, her gaze locked on his face as he gently applied the salve to her lips. The sore, dry surface absorbed the preparation at once, and Grant dipped his finger into the jar again. The room was utterly quiet except for the sound of Vivien's deep, trembling breath.

There was a tugging sensation in Grant's chest that bothered him profoundly. He wanted to kiss her, hold her, comfort her as if she were a lost child. He would never have guessed that Vivien Duvall could be so endearing and vulnerable. Damn her, if this was somehow an act on her part, he would probably end up throttling her.

Obviously she had already driven some other poor bastard to it already.

Grant paused at that thought, and grimly warned himself not to be affected by her. Enjoy her, take what he wanted...but not for a minute would he allow himself to care for her. That much trouble, he didn't need. He rubbed more of the salve between his fingers, until the cool scent of anise spiced the air. With the lightest possible touch, he spread the salve over her bruised, swollen throat. Vivien was very still beneath his hand, her gaze focused on his hard face.

"We knew each other before last night, didn't we?" she whispered.

His lashes lowered, and he took his time about replying. "You could say that."

Another soft pass of his fingertips over her skin, rubbing the salve deeper into her bruises.

Mired in confusion, she tried to analyze the sensation of his touch, the surprising sense of familiarity and comfort she found in his presence. Nothing in the world was familiar to her, not even her own face...but somehow he made her feel safe and reassured. She wouldn't feel this way in the company of a stranger, would she? "H-how well did we know each other?" Vivien asked unsteadily.

"We'll discuss it later." Exactly what he was going to say to her, and how he would present the situation, would take some consideration. In the meantime she would rest and heal, and remain under his protection. Although Vivien seemed none too pleased with his evasiveness, she refrained from pursuing the matter, and he guessed she was still too exhausted to debate. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, he extracted his watch. The lateness of the hour made him frown. "I have to leave for Bow Street," he said. "I'll visit your town house today and fetch some clothes for you."

She made an effort to smile, but her blue eyes were pleading. "Do I have family or friends to send for?"

"I don't know about your family," Grant admitted. "I'll find out what I can. And yes, you have friends...but now isn't the time for visiting. You need to rest." Unable to resist the temptation, he reached out and traced one of the worry lines on her downy forehead. "Don't worry, sweet pea," he murmured.

Vivien settled back against the pillows, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "So many questions," she sighed.

"You'll soon have all the answers you desire." He paused, and some of the vibrant tenderness left his voice as he added, "Although you may not like some of them."

She stared at him solemnly, her hand creeping to her throat. "What happened to me last night?"

"I intend to find out," he replied in a grim tone that left no room for doubt.

The street shaped like a bow had been built in the mid sixteen hundreds. There had been a few famous residents of Bow Street in the last century. But after the turn of the century, there was only one name associated with Bow Street that truly mattered...Sir Ross Cannon.

It seemed at times that the attention of the entire world was focused on the narrow, four-story building and its famous inhabitant. Cannon directed his half dozen Runners and eighty other assorted officers like a master conductor. The Runners had gained worldwide fame as they suppressed riots, solved crimes, and protected the royal family.

At the death of one of Fieldings's successors five years ago, many important men had been discussed as candidates for the new chief magistrate. However, a relative unknown was finally appointed to the position...Ross Cannon, who had previously served as a magistrate in the Great Marlboro Street office. Cannon had assumed the duties of chief magistrate as if he had been born to it. In no time at all he had left his own distinctive stamp on the Bow Street office, treating detective work as if it were a science, inventing methodology, testing theories, guiding and encouraging his officers with an infectious zeal. He was demanding and driven, and any one of his men would have gladly died for him. Including Grant.

Grant ascended the three front steps and gave a vigorous knock at the door. It was answered by Cannon's housekeeper, Mrs. Dobson, a fat, motherly woman with a head of bobbing silver curls. Her pudgy face glowed with a smile as she welcomed Grant inside. "You without a hat again, Mr. Morgan...You'll catch your death one of these days, with the wind blowing from the north like this."

"I can't wear a hat, Mrs. Dobson," Grant replied, shedding his heavy black greatcoat and giving it to her. She was nearly smothered by the huge mound of wool. "I'm tall enough as it is." The high-crowned hats that were currently fashionable made him look ridiculous, adding needless inches to his towering height until passersby stared openly.

"Well,not wearing a hat hardly fools anyone into thinking you're short," she pointed out.

Grant grinned and pinched her cheek, causing the housekeeper to gasp and scold him. Her reprimands, however, contained little heat--they both knew that of all the Runners, he was her favorite. "Where is Cannon?" Grant asked, his green eyes sparkling, and Mrs. Dobson indicated the magistrate's office.

The property at number 4 Bow Street contained a house, a tiny yard, offices, a court, and a strong room to hold prisoners.

Having been born to a family of means, Cannon could have lived an indolent life in a far more luxurious place than this...but that was not his nature. He had a passion for justice, and with all that needed to be done, there was no time for laziness or frivolity.

To Cannon, life was serious business, and he lived it accordingly. Rumor had it that his young wife on her deathbed had made him promise never to remarry, and Cannon had been faithful to his word. His tremendous energy was expended on his work. Even the closest and dearest of his friends would readily swear that nothing could break the iron control Cannon held over his own secretive heart.

Striding down the narrow hallway that led to Cannon's private office, Grant nearly collided with two Runners who were leaving...Flagstad and Keyes, the two oldest Runners, both of them fast approaching forty. "Off to guard the royal hind-quarters again," Keyes remarked cheerfully, while Flagstad revealed that he had been given the more lucrative assignment of attending the Bank of England, as quarterly dividends were being paid.

"And what are you about this morning?" Flagstad asked Grant. His weathered face creased with good humor. "No, don't tell me...another bank robbery, or a burglary on the west side that you'll charge a fortune to solve."

Grant responded with an answering grin, having endured much ribbing from his colleagues on his hefty commissions. He forbore to point out that in the last year he had literally caught more thieves than the other five Runners put together. "I only take what they're willing to pay," he said mildly.

"The only reason the nobs demand your services is because you're a bloody swell," Keyes said with a chuckle. "Just the other day a lady said to me, 'Of all the Runners, only Mr. Morgan looks the way one ought to look.'" He snorted at the statement. "As if a man's appearance has a damned thing to do with how he does the job!"

"I'ma swell?" Grant asked incredulously, glancing at his own conservative attire, and then at Keyes's dandified appearance...the carefully arranged "windswept" style of his hair, the gold pin in his elaborate cravat, the tiny silk flowers and fleurs-de-lis embroidered over his waistcoat. Not to mention the wide-brimmed, cream-colored hat worn carefully angled over one eye.

"I have to dress this way at court," Keyes said defensively.

Chuckling, Flagstad began to guide Keyes away before an argument could brew.

"Wait," Keyes said, an urgent note of interest entering his voice. "Morgan, I heard you were sent out last night to investigate a bloat found in the river."

"Yes."

Keyes seemed impatient at his terseness. "Talkative as a clam, aren't you? Well, what can you tell us about it? Was the victim male or female?"

"What does it matter to you?" Grant asked, perplexed by the Runner's interest in the matter.

"Are you going to take the case?" Keyes persisted.

"Probably."

"I'll take it for you if you like," Keyes offered. "God knows you haven't much interest in investigating a dead woman. I hear bloats aren't paying much these days."

Flagstad snickered at the lame jest.

Grant stared at Keyes with new alertness. "Why do you think it's a woman?" he asked idly.

Keyes blinked, and took a moment to answer. "Merely a guess, lad. Am I right?"

Giving him a last questioning glance, Grant refused comment and entered Cannon's office.

Sir Ross sat with his back to the door, at a massive oak pedestal desk arranged to face the long rectangular window overlooking the street. A massive brown-and-gray-striped cat occupied a corner of the desk, glancing lazily at the newcomer. The reticent feline had been discovered on the front steps of the Bow Street office a few years earlier. She was missing a tail, either by accident or some act of mischief, and had promptly been dubbed "Chopper." Strictly a one-person cat, Chopper reserved all her affection for Cannon, and barely tolerated anyone else.

Cannon's dark head turned, and he regarded Grant with a pleasant but unsmiling expression. "Good morning," he murmured. "There's a jug of coffee on the side table."

Grant never refused an offer of coffee. His passion for the bitter brew was rivaled only by Cannon's. They both drank it black and scalding hot whenever possible. Pouring a liberal amount into an empty creamware mug, Grant sat in the nearby chair Cannon indicated. The magistrate bent his attention to some documents on his desk once more, signing one with a deft flourish.

While he waited, Grant let his gaze roam over the comfortably familiar room. One wall was covered with maps of the city and surrounding counties, as well as floor plans of Westminster Hall, the Bank of England, and other buildings of significance. Another wall was covered with bookshelves, containing enough volumes to crush an elephant. The furniture consisted of a few heavy oak pieces, plain and functional. A library terrestrial globe was poised on a mahogany stand in the corner. Enough wall space had been allowed for a single painting, a landscape of North Wales in which a small stream rushed over craggy rocks, with dark trees and gray hills looming in the distance. The landscape was jarringly pristine in comparison with the bustling artifice of London.

Finally Cannon turned toward him, black brows arched in a request for information. With its sharp features and wintry gray eyes, his face possessed a wolfish cast. Were he to allow any warmth in his expression, he would have been considered handsome. "Well?" he murmured. "What of the bloat you investigated last night? Is there a need for a coroner's inquest?"

"No bloat," Grant replied briskly. "The victim--a woman--was still alive. I brought her to my home and sent for Dr. Linley."

"Very charitable of you."

Grant responded with a careful shrug. "I know the lady rather well. Her name is Vivien Duvall."

The name caught Cannon's interest. "The one who rebuffed you at the Wentworth ball?"

"I gaveher the shove-along," Grant said with a quick flare of annoyance. "Somehow in the course of gossip, the story was twisted around."

Cannon's black brows inched upward, and he made a sardonic "hmm" deep in his throat. "Go on. Tell me about Miss Duvall's condition."

Grant drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Attempted murder, no doubt about it. Heavy bruising and finger marks around the throat, not to mention a blow to the head. According to Linley, she'll be all right...but there is one difficulty. She's lost her memory. She can't provide a single detail of what happened, or even recall her own name."

"Did the doctor say when or if her memory might return?"

Grant shook his head. "There's no way of knowing. And until the investigation brings some evidence to light--or she regains her memory--it's safer if everyone thinks she's dead."

Cannon's gray eyes narrowed in fascination. "Shall I assign one of the Runners to investigate, or will you take the case?"

"I want it." Grant drained the last of his coffee and wrapped his long fingers around the cup, absorbing what little warmth remained. "I'm going to begin by questioning her former protector, Lord Gerard. It seems likely that he or some jealous lover may have tried to strangle her. The Devil knows there's probably a long list of them."

Cannon's mouth twitched with suppressed humor. "I'll send a man to question the waterman who found her, as well as the others who were ferrying passengers near Waterloo Bridge last evening. Perhaps one of them may have seen or heard something useful. Let me know how your investigation proceeds. In the meantime, where will Miss Duvall reside?"

Grant studied the sparkling black droplets that clung to the interior of his mug. He made his tone as matter-of-fact as possible. "With me."

"Surely she has friends or relatives who will take her in."

"She'll be safest under my protection."

Grant met Cannon's wintry, piercing gaze without flinching. The magistrate had always declined to comment on his Runners' personal lives, so long as they performed their jobs well. However, Cannon had a soft spot in his heart for women and children, and would do everything in his considerable power to prevent mistreatment of them.

Cannon let the silence linger uncomfortably long before speaking. "I believe I know you, Morgan...well enough to be certain that you wouldn't take advantage of this woman, no matter what your personal grievances."

Grant replied coldly. "I would never force myself on an unwilling woman."

"I wasn't referring to 'force,'" Cannon said softly. "I was referring to manipulation...opportunism...seduction."

Tempted to tell the magistrate to mind his own damned business, Grant stood and set his empty mug on the side table. "I don't need a lecture," he growled. "I won't harm Miss Duvall in any way. You have my word on that. Bear in mind, however, that she is hardly an innocent. She's a courtesan. Manipulation and seduction are tools of the trade. Her memory loss doesn't change the fact of what she is."

Unruffled, Cannon made a temple of his fingers and stared at Grant contemplatively. "Is Miss Duvall willing to accept this arrangement?"

"If she doesn't like it, she's free to go elsewhere."

"Make certain she understands that."

Biting back several choice comments, Grant inclined his head in agreement. "Anything else?" he inquired in a tone so bland as to be mocking.

Cannon continued to pin him with an assessing stare. "Perhaps you would care to explain why you wish to harbor Miss Duvall under your own roof, after all your avowed dislike of her."

"I never said I disliked her," Grant countered.

"Come now," came the gently chiding reply. "You made no secret of your resentment, after you'd been run through the rumor mill because of her."

"Call this my opportunity to make amends. Besides, it's my duty."

Cannon gave him a speaking glance. "Regardless of the lady's character--or lack thereof--I would prefer that you keep your hands off her until she recovers her memory and the investigation is concluded."

Annoyed almost beyond bearing, Grant smiled thinly. "Don't I always do as you ask?"

Cannon expelled a short, explosive sigh and turned toward his desk. "I wish to hell you would," he muttered, waving him away with a brief gesture.

"Good-bye, Chopper," Grant said lightly, but the cat turned her head with a disdain that made him grin.

Park Lane, the centerpiece of the prestigious area of Mayfair, was London's most desirable address. Suffused with an air of wealth and authority, the street was fronted with imposing columned mansions designed on a huge scale. The homes were meant to convince passersby that their inhabitants were superior to ordinary humans.

Grant had seen too much of the aristocracy's intimate personal lives to be awed by the grandeur of Park Lane. The nobility had as many flaws and foibles as average men...perhaps more. The only difference between an aristocrat and a commoner was that the former was far more resourceful at covering up his wrongdoings. And sometimes the nobility actually believed they were above the laws ordinary men were bound by. It was this kind of man that Grant most enjoyed bringing to justice.

The name of Vivien's most recent protector was William Henry Ellyot, Lord Gerard. As the future Earl of Norbury, his chief occupation was waiting for his father to die so that he could inherit a revered title and a considerable fortune. Unfortunately for Gerard, his father was in excellent health and would likely retain the earldom for many years to come. In the meantime, Gerard searched for ways to amuse himself, indulging his rampant tastes for women, drinking, gambling, and sporting. His "arrangement" with Vivien Duvall had made him the envy of many other men. She had been a lovely and highly visible trophy.

Gerard was known for his bad temper, given to violent tantrums when deprived of something he wanted. Although a gentleman was supposed to take his gambling losses with good grace, Gerard cheated and lied rather than accept defeat. It was rumored that he took out his frustrations on his servants, proving such a poor master that it was difficult to hire domestic help for his various households.

Grant mounted the steps of the classically styled manor with its columned pediment and statue-filled niches. A few strong raps on the door with his gloved fist, and one of the double portals was opened to reveal a butler's dour face.

"Your business, sir?" the butler inquired.

"Inform Lord Gerard that Mr. Morgan is here to see him."

Grant saw the instant of recognition on the butler's face, and a faint wariness threaded through the man's tone. "Sir, I regret to inform you that Lord Gerard is not at home. If you will leave your calling card, I will see that he receives it later."

Grant smiled wryly. "Not at home" was a phrase used by butlers to convey that a particular lord or lady might very well be in the house, but was unwilling to receive visitors. But if Grant wanted to question someone, social niceties were the last things to stand in his way.

"I don't leave cards," he said flatly. "Go tell your master that Mr. Morgan is here. This is not a social call."

The butler's face remained impassive, but he reeked of disapproval. Without offering a response, he left Grant at the doorstep and disappeared into the house. Grant shouldered his way inside and closed the heavy door with a hard nudge of his boot. Rocking back on his heels, he surveyed the entrance hall. It was lined with gleaming marble columns, the walls painted a soft matte shade of a fashionable color called "Parisian gray." Cool white plasterwork covered the upper portion of the walls, rising to a lofty ceiling. Directly opposite the front door was an apse containing a small statue of a winged female figure.

Approaching the statue, Grant touched one of the delicate feathery wings, admiring the elegant work.

The butler reappeared at that moment, frowning in bristling hauteur. "Sir, that is part of Lord Gerard's prized collection of Roman statuary."

Grant drew back and replied matter-of-factly, "Grecian, actually. The original sits in the hand of Athena in the Parthenon."

"Well..." The butler was clearly nonplussed. "It's not to be touched. If you would care to follow me, Lord Gerard is at home now."

Grant was shown into a large drawing room with walls covered in creamy white woodwork and octagonal panels of red damask. The ceiling was remarkable, inset with red and gold panels that spread outward from a central golden sun. Between a pair of diamond-paned windows, a series of medallion portraits displayed the fleshy, dignified faces of the past five Earls of Norbury.

"Care for a drink, Morgan?"

Lord Gerard entered the room, clad in an embroidered green velvet dressing gown. His uncombed hair sprung untidily around his heavy-cheeked face, and his skin was florid from strong drink. Holding a snifter of brandy in one hand, Gerard made his way to a massive wing chair with ball-and-claw feet, and lowered himself gingerly. Although Gerard was in his early thirties, a life dedicated to self-indulgence had made him look at least ten years older. He was relentlessly average in appearance, neither fat nor thin, neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor ugly. His only distinctive feature was his eyes, dark, small, and intense.

Gerard gestured with his snifter. "A damn fine Armagnac," he commented. "Shall you take some?"

"A bit early in the day for me," Grant said with a slight shake of his head.

"I can think of no better way to begin the day." Gerard drank deeply of the bloodred liquid.

Grant kept his expression pleasant, but something dark and ugly stirred inside him as he watched Gerard. The image of Vivien with this man, servicing him, pleasuring him, passed before Grant in a disquieting flash. She had been Gerard's whore, and would undoubtedly sell herself to the next man who could meet her price. Jealous and repulsed, Grant sat in the chair adjacent to Gerard's.

"Thank you for agreeing to talk with me," Grant murmured.

Gerard tore his attention away from the snifter long enough to manage a sour smile. "As I understood it, I hadn't much choice."

"I don't expect this will take long," Grant said. "I only have a few questions for you."

"Are you conducting an investigation of some sort? What and whom does it concern?"

Grant sat back in his chair, appearing relaxed, but his gaze did not swerve from Gerard's face. "I'd like to know your whereabouts last evening, around midnight."

"I was at my club, Craven's. I have several friends who will verify my presence there."

"When did you leave the club?"

"Four o'clock, perhaps five." Gerard's thick lips curved with a self-satisfied smile. "I had a run of luck at the hazard tables and then took a flier with one of the house wenches. An excellent evening all around."

Grant launched abruptly into the next question. "What was the nature of your relationship with Miss Vivien Duvall?"

The name seemed to puncture Gerard's sense of well-being. The flush on his face deepened, and the dark, narrow eyes resembled chips of obsidian. He leaned forward, holding his snifter in both hands. "This is about Vivien, then? What happened? Has she landed in some kind of trouble? Bloody Christ, I hope it's nasty and unholy expensive, whatever it is. Tell her that I won't lift a finger to help her, even if she comes crawling. I'd sooner kiss the pope's toe."

"Your relationship with her," Grant repeated quietly.

Gerard finished his Armagnac in a slurping swallow and blotted his mouth with his sleeve. The liquor seemed to calm him, and his face split with a crafty smile. "I believe you already know that, Morgan. You once displayed a bit of interest in her yourself, didn't you? And she wouldn't have you." He chortled, tickled by the notion, then sobered quickly. "That hellcat Vivien. Two years I had with her. I paid her bills, gave her the town house, jewelry, a carriage, horses, anything she desired. All for the exclusive right to bed her. At least, it was supposed to be exclusive. I didn't delude myself into thinking she was faithful to me, however. Vivien isn't capable of fidelity."

"Is that why your arrangement ended? Because she was unfaithful?"

"No." Gerard stared moodily at his empty glass. "Before I divulge anything further,you can explain something...Why the hell are we talking about Vivien? Has something happened to her?"

"You can answer my questions here or at Bow Street," Grant said calmly. "You wouldn't be the first peer I've inquisitioned in the strong room."

A spurt of incredulous rage caused Gerard to rise from his chair. "That you dare to threaten me...By God, someone ought to take you down a few buttons!"

Grant stood as well, eclipsing Gerard's height by almost a head. "You're welcome to try," he said softly. He rarely used his size to bully others, preferring to rely on his wits. There were too many men who tried to test their own strength against him, provoking him to fight in the hopes that they might impress their friends with their daring. Grant had long ago tired of thrashing the endless parade of bantam roosters who challenged him. He only fought when strictly necessary--and he always won. He took little pleasure in beating a man senseless. For Gerard, however, he might make an exception.

Gerard's face sagged in dismay as he beheld the giant figure before him. He smoothed the top of his disheveled head in a quick, nervous gesture. "No, I shan't take you on," he mumbled. "I wouldn't lower myself to trade blows with a common bruiser."

Grant gestured toward the wing chair with exaggerated courtesy. "Then have a seat, my lord."

A new thought seemed to occur to Gerard, and he lowered himself heavily into the upholstered cushions. "Good God," he said thickly. "Vivien's dead, isn't she? That's what this is about."

Grant sat and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He stared intently at Gerard's flushed face. "Why do you say that?" Gerard spoke as if in a daze. "She's gone missing for the past month, ever since she broke off our arrangement. Her servants were dismissed and the town house was closed. I went to balls Vivien was supposed to have attended, a soiree, a musical evening...No one knew where she was, or why she hadn't come. Everyone assumed she had secluded herself with some new protector. But Vivien wouldn't have stayed away from London that long unless something was drastically wrong."

"Why do you say that?"

"Vivien is easily bored. She has a constant need for stimulation and amusement. A quiet evening at home would drive her mad. She hates to be alone. She insists on going to some soiree or party every night of the week. I could never match her pace." Gerard gave a small, defeated laugh. "She stayed with me longer than with any of her other protectors--I've taken some measure of comfort in that."

"Does she have any enemies that you know of?"

"No one I would label that way...but there are many who dislike her."

"What was Miss Duvall's financial situation at the time she parted from you?"

"Money pours through Vivien's fingers like water. She didn't have sufficient funds to last long. She had to find a new paramour without delay."

"Any notion of whom the next candidate might have been?"

"No."

"What do you know of her family?"

"She has none that I am aware of. As you might guess, our conversations rarely turned in that direction." Gerard sighed and nibbled at a rough spot on one of his manicured cuticles. "Will this take much longer, Morgan? I have a thirst for more Armagnac."

"What direction did your conversations turn to?" Grant asked. "Does Miss Duvall have any particular hobbies or pursuits? Any new interests she has developed of late?"

"None that exist outside of bed. Why, I doubt she's ever even read a book."

"Any new acquaintances you were aware of? Male in particular?"

Gerard rolled his eyes. "God Himself couldn't account for all of Vivien's male acquaintances."

"Tell me about the day she broke off your arrangement. Did you argue?"

"Naturally. I had invested quite heavily in her, and I saw no reason things could not continue indefinitely. I've closed my eyes whenever she cared to have a dallaince. I became quite heated--I even threatened her--but she laughed in my face. I demanded to know the name of the man who would be my replacement, as I was certain that she wouldn't leave me without first securing another arrangement. She was quite smug, and would say nothing except that she expected soon to marry into a great fortune." He snorted with bitter amusement. "The idea! One doesn't marry soiled goods like Vivien Duvall, unless he wants to be the laughingstock of England. Of course, I would put nothing past her. I suppose it's possible she could have enticed some decrepit widower to make an offer for her." "Were there witnesses to the argument?"

"Vivien's servants were aware of it, I'm certain. No doubt I raised the roof a time or two."

"Did you strike her?"

"Never," Gerard said instantly, seeming offended. "I'll admit, I was tempted to choke the life out of her. But I would never do harm to a woman. And in spite of my anger, I would have taken Vivien back if she had desired it, my pride be damned."

Grant's brows pulled together at the statement. In his opinion, no woman was worth the sacrifice of a man's pride, no matter how attractive she might have been. There was always another pretty face, another well-shaped body, another display of feminine charms that would soon blot out the memories.

"I can see what you're thinking," Gerard said. "But there's something you don't understand...Vivien is one of a kind. The smell, the taste, the feel of her...No one could compare. There was nothing she wouldn't do in bed. Have you ever slept with a woman who has no shame? If I could have just one more night with her...even one hour..." He shook his head with a mumbled curse.

"All right, my lord," Grant said tersely. "We're finished for now. As my investigation proceeds, I may have more questions for you." He stood and headed for the door, but paused as he heard Gerard's pleading voice.

"Morgan, you must tell me...What has happened to her?"

Grant turned to glance at him curiously. "If she were dead," he said slowly, "would you mourn her?" He waited a long time for the other man to reply, but Gerard apparently found it difficult to answer.

Grant smiled cynically. Gerard was like a child deprived of his favorite toy--he would miss the sexual pleasure Vivien had given him, but he felt no genuine caring or concern. Some courtesans and their protectors genuinely loved each other, had relationships that lasted for decades. Grant knew more than one man who had escaped the bitter disappointment of his arranged marriage by taking a mistress who would bear him children and serve him as the loving companion his wife should have been. For Vivien, however, the role of courtesan was played purely for reasons of business and profit.

"Do you have a set of keys to her town house?" Grant asked Gerard.

The question clearly nonplussed him. "I suppose I might. Do you intend to search her possessions? What do you expect to find?"

"Where Miss Duvall is concerned, I'm learning not to expect anything," Grant replied dourly, while curiosity and an odd touch of dread tangled inside him at the prospect of visiting her town house. The more he discovered about Vivien and her sordid past, the darker his mood became.